


Just a Dunkin' Donuts Thing

by Sholio



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Family, Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 22:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: Hopper's late; Eleven worries.





	Just a Dunkin' Donuts Thing

**Author's Note:**

> For [a prompt on Tumblr](https://sholiofic.tumblr.com/post/167011538593/first-time-hopper-is-late-home-to-ever-and-eleven).

Ever since Halloween, and those days immediately afterwards, he's been exactly on time for 93 days.

When he says he'll be home at 5:15 ("five one five," she still says, because it makes him smile, even though she knows, now, that it's five-fifteen), he'll be there - maybe a minute or two late, but not more than that, and she can hear the growl of the Blazer's engine through the window she's allowed to keep open now.

And when he's going to be late, he tells her.

There is a telephone in the cabin now -- there never used to be -- and if he finds out he'll be late and didn't tell her in the morning, he will call her in the afternoon.

Always.

For 93 days.

Now it's almost nine-one-five and the TV dinners have long since grown cold on the table and she paces, fists pressed to her forehead, trying to think. It's dark outside the cabin and cold air comes in through the open window.

No phone call. No signal. No anything.

She can call Mike's house. Or Mrs. Byers' house. She can do these things. But ... but she doesn't know if it's safe. What if they've been found? Will she get her friends in trouble too? She doesn't know if she should go to town to help, or stay here because he'd want her to stay here ... 

The low growl of an engine.

She throws herself to the window, listens with her head ducked beneath the sill. It sounds like the Blazer. It stops. A door slams. 

Her fingers twitch involuntarily; the phone lifts out of its cradle and then drops back. She could call Mrs. Byers. She could use the walkie-talkie and call Mike. She has people to call. But ... she can't. Not if ... not if she's been compromised.

Footsteps in the woods. She pops her head up above the windowsill, reaching at the same time, with her mind, to turn off the light.

In the dark, she watches him walk up the steps. She doesn't see anyone else around.

The knock comes. The usual pattern. She snaps back the locks with her mind.

The door swings open.

"Okay, so," Hopper says wearily. "First of all, sorry, I fucked up -- messed up, I mean. Far as I'm concerned, if you ate a whole stack of waffles for dinner, I swear I won't -- _huff!"_

That last because she's barreled into him, wrapped her arms around him, pressed her face against his chest, and just held on.

He's okay. He's just late. Like he used to be a lot. And she used to get so mad when he was late -- before -- because _friends don't lie_ and it's not _fair_ when he says he'll be home at five-one-five and he's her only link to the world outside ... but she's not mad at all now; it's okay, she doesn't even care if there wasn't a phone call or a signal, because they _aren't_ compromised and he's _not_ hurt and she _doesn't_ have to call anybody, because he's home --

"Hey. Hey." He puts one hand on her back; the other rests on her head, rubbing gently. "Hey. I'm sorry I'm late."

"I don't care," she sniffles against his chest. "You're not hurt."

"No," he murmurs, leaning down to rest his chin against the top of her head.

"Or compromised."

"Or compromised. God, kid, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Things got a little crazy at work."

"Crazy?" she says, pulling back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Crazy how?"

"Uh -- so I told you we had this whole run of streaker calls lately? Those ones with the guy sneaking around in the bushes and -- uh --" She can tell he's censoring things in his head and it makes her giggle as they walk over to the table, him with an arm around her. He flicks on the lamp, checks under the foil on one of the TV dinners, stacks both one-handed, and walks them to the microwave. She's still attached to him. She doesn't want to let go.

"Yes. I remember," she says. "Did you catch him?"

"Uh, actually we ended up in a three-hour foot chase around Hawkins, in February, with a guy who's wearing nothing except a matador cape and a pair of tennis shoes."

"Ewww."

"You and me both, kid. Swore we had him cornered behind the Radio Shack, and then Callahan comes one way, and I come the other -- Listen, I'm really sorry I didn't call. Really sorry."

"It's okay," she says, leaning into his side, listening to his heart beat.

"No, it's not. I'm trying to do better."

"You are doing better," she says. "Friends don't lie. But friends forget, sometimes."

"Yeah," he murmurs. The microwave dings. He takes out one, puts in the other. "Friends forget."

"And friends get one free forgetting per quarter," she says, grinning to herself against his side.

"Friends get _what?"_

"One free forgetting."

"Per quarter."

"A quarter is one fourth of a year. Which is three months. Which is how long since Halloween."

"Is this one of those Dunkin' Donuts things?" he asks suspiciously.

"Dungeons and Dragons, and no, it's a rule I made up."

"You're making up rules now."

She nods.

"Oh, good God," he sighs. "So I can't be late again 'til May, did I do the math right?"

"Not without calling."

"Well, I guess you just told me." He hands her a warm plastic tray and kisses the top of her head. "Deal. Let's go eat."


End file.
